


And Now... A Word from My Sponsor

by Dragonbat



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Female Friendship, Gen, Misses Clause Challenge, Past Drug Use, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-22 22:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16606376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonbat/pseuds/Dragonbat
Summary: Fresh out of rehab, Trish Walker finds a kindred spirit at an addiction support meeting.





	And Now... A Word from My Sponsor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilacsigil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilacsigil/gifts).



> A/N: Introduction format is taken from the Narcotics Anonymous Sample Meeting Format and Readings as found on the Chooper’s Guide website. Please note that although I consulted NA materials online for research purposes, the meeting as depicted is not necessarily an NA meeting and may not conform to their format or guidelines in all respects.
> 
>  
> 
> Timeline: Begins somewhere after the flashback parts of “AKA I Want Your Cray-Cray” (Jessica Jones, S2E7) and “Karen” (Daredevil, S3E10), and ends early Daredevil S1, during the six-month period prior to Jessica Jones S1 when Jessica and Trish were out of contact.
> 
> Thanks to HbThomas for the beta!

**And Now... A Word from My Sponsor**

 

Trish was glad that there were no reporters around when she got out. She’d asked that her discharge date be kept confidential, that neither the media nor her mother be informed. She actually wouldn’t have minded Jessica being there to welcome her back, but Patsy had no idea where she was nor how to get in touch with her now. So, here she was, fresh out of rehab, twenty-nine days sober, and all alone. She could do this.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent any time in Hell’s Kitchen. She must have attended something here at some point. Maybe it had been one of those exhausting ‘Meet Patsy!’ appearances or a ribbon cutting ceremony, back when her show had still been on the air. Or maybe she’d been to some rave or concert or party here; she must have visited every nightclub in the city, if not the state, in the last couple of years. But everything about the last couple of years was a blur of loud music, bright lights, alcohol, drugs, and sex. None of which were on the agenda tonight. More like the polar opposite, actually.

She spotted the church spires from a half block away, but she checked the address to be on the safe side. She understood that her month in rehab had been a good start, but without support meetings, her odds of staying clean lowered drastically. She understood that. But she also understood that having the press around snapping photos and shoving microphones in her face was the last thing she needed. She just wanted a quiet place in an out of the way part of town where she was less-likely to be recognized. She put a hand up self-consciously to her wig—it was real hair and looked natural, right down to the imitation skin that showed where she’d parted it, but it felt hot and itchy like a close-fitting hat—and continued on. Despite the hour, the main door was unlocked and a sandwich board of evening events greeted her. The meeting would take place in the basement social hall. She checked her watch and confirmed that she was twenty minutes early. Perfect. She had enough time to freshen up then.

* * *

 

In the church bathroom, Trish checked her reflection in the mirror and shoved an errant lock of blonde hair back under the brown wig. When she slid her fingers out from under the wig cap, another lock slid out with it. She growled an epithet and tried to push that one back in, too. When yet another blonde tendril spilled forth, she yanked off the wig with a cry that was part rage and part pain (the bobby pins she’d been using to hold it in place had yanked some of her real hair out as they’d come loose). It was a stupid idea anyway. Most of the world probably already thought of her as a redhead anyway, thanks to that _other_ wig, the one she’d worn day in and day out for the eight years her show had aired.

Then again, thanks to her antics once the show was cancelled—one more ex-child star gone off the rails—there were new pictures to gawk at, almost as embarrassing as the old ones, albeit for different reasons. And in those, her hair _was_ its natural blonde. Almost natural; it had gotten darker in her teens and she had to use dye to get it back to its original state. Chemicals on the inside, chemicals on the outside, with all of this unnatural crap in her system, was there anything left of the real Patricia Walker anymore? Had there ever _been_ a real Patricia Walker to start with? Or just the image her mother had crafted and marketed, the perfect, happy, fun-loving girl who ‘really wanted to be your friend’? _A patsy_. Well, no more of that.

She shook her head. She sure as hell hadn’t been much of a friend—or a sister—lately. She needed help and she _didn’t_ need publicity. Which was why she was here, in a church—one that wasn’t of the denomination she nominally subscribed to—about to enter a support meeting where, she hoped, nobody would recognize her. For a moment, she felt overwhelmed and wondered whether the rehab doctors had made a mistake and released her too soon. Then she took a deep breath and reassured herself. She could deal with this. All beginnings were hard and this was a beginning. She’d be fine. _Hi, my name is Trish and I’m an addict._ She felt her heart sink. There went her anonymity. The minute she introduced herself, someone would figure it out. They’d all know. _It’s Patsy… Patsy…_ Maybe she should give a fake name. Who’d know? But what if someone addressed her by it and she forgot it was hers? And introducing herself as Patsy would be even worse. Besides, she liked being Trish. Maybe she should have waited until she hit bottom before she’d changed her moniker and tried reinventing herself as a popstar. Maybe using Patricia would draw less attention. Pat? Patty? Tricia? Maybe she’d just sit at the back and hope nobody saw her.

She twisted her hair into a tight braid—a style she’d never worn and hoped nobody would associate with her. Then she reached into her purse for her sunglasses and jammed them onto the bridge of her nose. Perfect. Faded jeans and an old college sweatshirt, new hairdo, hidden eyes, and no makeup. She peered into the mirror once more and a stranger peered back. A nondescript, anonymous stranger. Perfect.

Her hair was still misbehaving, trying to work itself out of the braid. She tucked a stray wisp of it behind one ear, took a deep breath, and turned for the bathroom door. One hour. One meeting. She could do this.

* * *

 

She didn’t have to stand up and introduce herself. Some people chose to do so, those who were comfortable enough to share the circumstances that had brought them here. They also used a different lead than she’d expected. “Hi, I’m an addict and my name is John.” Problem first, name second. She’d have to remember that if—no _when_ —she came back.

Trish spent the meeting just sitting still and taking it all in. There were about thirty of them here, all sitting in a large circle. She wasn’t the only one who kept quiet either. While she wasn’t keeping track, she guessed that slightly less than half of the people in the room stood up to speak, with maybe a quarter more chiming in with their comments. Some of the stories told struck a chord of recognition with her. Others made her grateful that she’d gotten help when she had. _At least, I didn’t wait until I had kids and then show up high at parents’ night. I never climbed a flagpole nude and didn’t realize I couldn’t fly until I was lying on the ground with two broken legs. I never…_ Enough. She’d caused more than enough pain and anguish, both to herself and to others. There were no medals for not causing as much harm as the next person. She had her own past, even if she wasn’t ready to share it, yet.

Of course, some of the people who got up to speak didn’t move her the same way. Some experiences were too far removed from hers to resonate. Some people stammered or rambled or had accents she had to struggle to understand. When her mind wandered, she found herself looking around at the other participants. Seated directly across from her in the circle was a woman about her own age, blonde and thin enough for TV. Trish found herself wondering what brought _her_ here. Meth? Heroin? Maybe she was some university student doing research for a psych project. This was supposed to be a closed meeting, but that didn’t mean that people couldn’t crash it. It wasn’t like anybody would have asked her for ID or a note from her addictions counsellor when she’d walked in.

The woman looked up and met Trish’s eyes then and smiled in a half-nervous, half-friendly fashion. Trish smiled back.

Then the woman rose to her feet and took a deep breath. “Hi, I’m an addict and my name is Karen.”

And Trish sat riveted.

* * *

 

After the meeting were refreshments: donuts that tasted like they’d been baked fresh that morning, monster-sized muffins, oatmeal raisin cookies out of a package, and some bottled waters and herbal teas.

“Sugar’s not an addiction,” Karen murmured to her wryly. “But you won’t find any caffeine here.”

Trish nodded. “Guess that explains why none of the donuts are chocolate-frosted,” she replied.

“You got it. Food addiction’s a thing—Binge Eating Disorder, I mean—but there are other meetings for that. I’m Karen by the way.”

“Uh… Pat,” Trish said quickly. During her last year on the show, some of the cast and crew had taken to addressing her in that manner off-camera. In a place where everyone was constantly rushing and on the go, precious split-seconds could be saved by shaving a syllable off her name, she thought with a touch of cynical humor. Bonus: her mother had hated it when they did.

“Your first meeting?” Karen asked.

Trish nodded. “I guess it shows, huh.”

“A little, I guess,” Karen nodded back. “Mostly though, I’ve been coming for about a year and a half and I haven’t seen you here before. So, either you usually go someplace else, or…”

Trish smiled and shook her head. “I just got out of rehab. Things got… pretty bad.”

“Hey,” Karen said, “you don’t have to share if you don’t want to. Almost nobody does the first time.”

Trish nodded, still smiling a bit. “Thanks. What you said tonight was really…” She let out a breath. “Wow.”

“Yeah, well, after the first six times standing up or so, it gets easier.”

“Does it?” She couldn’t imagine standing up there once.

Karen shook her head. “Telling it does. But… my father still doesn’t want to speak to me. The town still talks. My brother…” She closed her eyes. “I think that’s the worst. Knowing that there are some things you just can’t change, no matter how much you want to.”

“I don’t know what else you could have done,” Trish said, trying to find something comforting to say. “I mean, your boyf… uh… your… friend? He was going to kill him. Your brother was pretty messed up. You were trying to save him.”

“I still drove stoned. If I hadn’t been using… dealing… I’d never have gotten mixed up with Todd. I wouldn’t have tried to run off with him, Kevin wouldn’t have tried to stop me, Todd wouldn’t have…” She shook her head. “None of it had to happen. If I hadn’t been using, it wouldn’t have. That’s the reality I’m learning to live with. Without getting high again to try to tune it out. Some days… I’m better at it than others.”

“I…” Trish paused. “I’m sorry. I wish I had something better to say.”

“Some magic words that’ll make everything okay?” Karen shook her head. “I don’t think anybody’s got those.” She glanced around. “The crowd’s thinning out.”

“Yeah.” She wasn’t really in a hurry to leave. And if she did, she thought that she might just head for the nearest bar. “I-I guess I should probably get my coat.”

“Hey,” Karen said with that same wry smile. “If you want to hang out a little more, maybe we could go somewhere?” It was a casual question, but there was a hopeful, almost pleading note to it that told Trish that her new friend probably wasn’t in any rush to get home. And Trish wasn’t eager to get back to an empty apartment with a bar less than two blocks away herself.

She still wanted a drink, but she knew she didn’t want the consequences it would bring. And having someone around who could talk her back from that brink was probably a good thing. “Somewhere we could get some coffee?” Trish asked. She clapped a hand to her mouth, half-joking, half-serious. “Or should I not have said that?”

Karen grinned. “I won’t tell if you won’t. There’s a Starbucks not far from here.”

* * *

 

It had been a long time since Trish had spoken with someone who was interested in her as a person and not as a meal ticket, a star, or a sexual conquest. Not since she’d parted from Jess over a month ago. And she didn’t know if she was ready to call Jess yet. Or if Jess’s phone was even in service now. But Karen was easy to talk to. And after the account she’d given tonight, Trish felt comfortable opening up a little. There was no reason for Karen to fit the pieces together. People went to raves and parties when they weren’t famous. Hell, after the cross-section of people she’d met tonight, it was more obvious than ever that you didn’t have to be a washed-up child star trying to become an up-and-coming popstar in order to have a reason to get drunk or stoned.

So, she kept the specifics of her life appropriately vague, only sharing the general details that could have happened to anyone.

And, week after week, she kept coming back to Hell’s Kitchen, instead of finding another meeting closer to her new apartment. It wasn’t until the sixth meeting that she’d admitted to Karen who she really was. The revelation had been met, first with a blank stare, and then with a, “Oh, I think I actually heard of that one. Sorry. I never really got into those after-school shows.”

For a moment, Trish stared, slack-jawed. Then, realizing that she’d been holding her breath, waiting with a certain amount of dread for Karen to ask for an autograph or have her sing her theme song, or some other fangirly crap, she started to giggle. Karen joined her. A number of other patrons glanced in their direction, clearly curious about the joke. But it was New York and they were a couple of young women who were clearly having a good time, so after a moment, people shrugged and went back to staring at their cell phone screens.

She didn’t ask Karen to be her sponsor. Karen didn’t offer. But those coffee shop post-meeting meetings became her lifeline and there were times when she was positive that they were the only thing keeping her from relapsing. Sometimes, she found herself wondering whether Karen felt the same way about them, though she never posed the question. But they kept meeting and talking, not just about their lousy pasts, but about their uncertain presents, and their less-certain but more hopeful futures. And six months passed before they realized it.

* * *

 

“So…” Trish took a deep breath as she lowered her coffee cup and jammed her fork into the cheesecake she almost hadn’t ordered. “So… I think I’m going to get up and talk next time.”

Karen smiled. “You sure you’re ready?”

“No. But I think I’m going to try it anyway.”

* * *

 

Actually, it took her more than another month to do it, but when she finally managed it, the aftermath wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d been fearing. A couple of people approached her afterwards to tell her they’d watched her show or that they’d _thought_ there was something familiar about her, but nobody was obnoxious about it and there was no media circus waiting outside the church doors when she and Karen left afterwards, not then and not after any of the meetings in the weeks that followed.

She wasn’t actually sure whether that was a good thing. At first, it had been bliss to be left alone, but she didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life now. She’d spent too much of it in the spotlight to spend the rest of it hiding in the wings. At the same time, she didn’t want to fall back into her old ways and the entertainment industry held far too many temptations, and far too much opportunity to indulge them. She was at her best with an audience and an act. There had to be some safe way to take advantage of that strength that wouldn’t leave her wide open to the kind of environment that had led her into substance abuse in the first place.

She found herself bending Karen’s ear about it and feeling better after their conversations, even if Karen rarely did more than listen. At least, for the first time, Trish felt that someone _was_ listening. Not arguing, not ignoring, not shushing her and telling her what she needed, just giving her time to work things out for herself and giving her support by letting her believe she was strong enough to handle things her way.

Karen was picking up the pieces of her own life, trying to break out of a cycle of temporary office jobs and land something more secure—if any employment could be said to be secure when a fight between costumes and aliens could level your place of business in a heartbeat. Trish listened empathetically when Karen talked about interviews she was sure she’d bombed and tried to give her tips she’d learned as an actress that she thought might help. It surprised her somewhat that anyone as confident and together as Karen seemed in the meetings could be so timid and hesitant in other areas, but even when Trish tried coaching her, Karen’s nervousness telegraphed loud and clear. Eventually, though, things started clicking and Karen began to get calls for second interviews. While no job offer materialized, both young women were hopeful that one would soon.

Watching Karen go through the process had Trish wondering what she herself would do when she finished burning through the savings she had left after paying damages to the venues she’d cancelled to go into rehab. She didn’t have office skills. She’d passed up college to launch her singing career. At least she’d finished high school, but as far as what to do next, well, she had a few dreams, but no goals or plans.

And then, WNEX approached her with an offer to host a talk show. And she realized that it might be exactly what she needed: a chance for recognition, an opportunity to be a household name again, a chance to perform for a live—if invisible—audience, only instead of being at the mercy of the media, she’d be part of it.

_If you can’t beat ’em…_

Still. It was a step back into a world that had nearly destroyed her. But it was a step she would be taking without her overly-ambitious mother micromanaging her every move. She thought about it. She talked it over with Karen. Thought about it some more. Talked some more. And finally, she made up her mind.

* * *

 

“So…” Karen began, as Trish sipped her coffee.

“So…” Trish echoed.

Karen’s smile grew wider. “I got it.”

Trish set down her cup, beaming. “The Union Allied interview…? The… the…”

“The finance department job!” Karen nodded. “I got it!”

“I knew you aced it!” Trish exclaimed. “I was pulling for you!”

“I mean, it’s not the business administration program at ESU like I planned, but it’s a start. And I once the money starts coming in, I might take night classes.”

“That’s fantastic!” She took a breath. “I’m still in talks with WNEX, but it looks like the radio show is happening. I think you were right: people might tune in to hear what ‘Patsy’s’ up to now, but they’ll stick around to listen to ‘Trish’. Because she’s got a lot more to talk about than boys and parties and…”

“…Really wanting to be your friend?” Karen asked. She shrugged at Trish’s startled laugh. “I never watched the show when it was on, but after you told me, I checked out a couple of episodes on YouTube. That theme song? It’s kind of an earworm.”

Trish laughed at that, but her expression turned serious quickly. “I really want to _stay_ friends,” she said, “but I’m going to be looking for a meeting a bit closer to home now, I think. Midtown.”

“Oh,” Karen said. “Well. I mean, you have my number. We should stay in touch.” Her smile turned serious. “And if you don’t connect with anyone at that other meeting and you find the pressure getting to you, again you’ve got my number.”

* * *

 

The leader of the new meeting was quick to hook Trish up with a sponsor—a grandmotherly woman in her sixties who’d been clean for almost thirty-five years. Trish liked her.

She meant to keep in touch with Karen. She really did. But once Karen started taking community college classes in office management, she had less time for coffee. And Trish found that after talking to a steady stream of callers on the air for two hours a day, five days a week—to say nothing of regular talks with staff and producers about content, feedback, logistics, and a host of other issues she’d never had to think about as a child star, _plus_ the support group meetings she still attended once a week religiously—the last thing she wanted to do when she got home was get back on the phone—or go out to a coffee shop—and talk more.

She thought about calling her after the Union Allied scandal broke in the _Bulletin_ , but by then it had been more than a year since they’d spoken and it felt awkward, even ghoulish, to reach out now out of the blue. As if the only reason for resuming contact was to hear the latest dirt. Trish had hated it when fairweather friends had pulled stuff like that with _her_. She didn’t want Karen to think she was doing it now.

And then one day, out of the blue, her phone rang. “Trish? It’s Karen. How _are_ you?”

* * *

 

Karen was doing well. She was now an office manager for a law firm operating out of Hell’s Kitchen and they were trying to drum up some business. “I’ve never really done much networking before,” she went on, “and I don’t want you to think I’m trying to take advantage or anything, but if you know of anyone who needs a couple of really good lawyers…”

She thought about Jessica, who was now doing some kind of PI work, if memory served, though that had been over three months ago when last they’d seen each other. No, if Jess needed a lawyer, she already had a lawyer in her corner. A good one. “I don’t off-hand,” she admitted, “but if you’d like to advertise during my show, I can put you in touch with the right people.”

If Karen hadn’t been there for her when Trish had walked into that church nearly two years ago, Trish didn’t know if she’d have been able to stay clean this long. It wasn’t like she’d had much support from other quarters. She flinched guiltily, wishing she’d tried harder to stay in touch after they’d parted ways. Well, no matter. They were in touch now and if there was anything Trish could do for an old friend, she would.

Karen sounded a bit embarrassed when she admitted that they were still scrabbling to keep the lights on and the utilities paid. “We’ll get by, though,” she added hastily. “I mean, we’re just starting out; once word gets around, I know we’ll get some clients. Then maybe we’ll have the money to advertise and get more. Meanwhile, I guess it’s going to have to be word of mouth. So, if you do hear of someone who’s looking…”

Trish thought for a moment. “You know,” she said slowly, “I bet a show on economic redevelopment in the ’Kitchen might appeal to my listeners.” She let the smile on her face carry into her voice as she continued. “Maybe even a week-long series. I could have people from some of the older and _newer_ establishments in studio to talk about their business, drum up some interest… What do you think? Would Nelson and Murdock be up for a little self-promotion?”

Karen perked up at that. “You want to meet for coffee and discuss it?”

Trish grinned. “Usual spot?”

She could hear an answering grin in Karen’s voice. “Usual spot.”


End file.
